He walked to the door and held it open for Brunetti. ‘Are there any more names on the list, Commissario? Because you’re not going to get me to believe that one of those people is capable of anything worse than false piety.’ Vianello turned to look at the clock on the wall above the bar.
Just as tired of piety as his sergeant was, Brunetti said, ‘No, I don’t think so. The fourth will divided everything equally among six children.’
‘And the fifth?’
‘The heir lives in Torino.’
‘That doesn’t leave many suspects, does it, sir?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. And I’m beginning to think there’s not much to be suspicious of.’
‘Should we bother going back to the Questura?’ Vianello asked, this time pushing back his sleeve to look at his watch.
It was quarter after six. ‘No, no sense in bothering to do that,’ Brunetti answered. ‘You might as well get home at a decent hour, Sergeant.’
Vianello smiled in answer, started to say something, stopped himself, but then gave in to the impulse and said, ‘Give me more time at the gym.’
‘Don’t even say such things to me,’ Brunetti insisted, pulling his face together in an expression of exaggerated horror.
Vianello laughed aloud as he started up the first steps of the Accademia Bridge, leaving Brunetti to make his way home by way of Campo San Barnaba.
It was in this campo, standing in front of the newly restored church and seeing its freshly scrubbed façade for the first time, that the idea came to Brunetti. He cut into the calle beside the church and stopped at the last door before the Grand Canal.
The door clicked open on his second ring, and he entered the immense courtyard of his parents-in-law’s palazzo. Luciana, the maid who had been with the family since before Brunetti met Paola, opened the door at the top of the stairs that led up to the palazzo and smiled a friendly greeting. ‘Buona sera, Dottore,’ she said, stepping back to allow him into the hall.
‘Buona sera, Luciana. It’s good to see you again,’ Brunetti said, giving her his coat, conscious of how many times he’d handed it back and forth that afternoon. ‘I’d like to speak to my mother-in-law. If she’s home, that is.’
If Luciana was surprised by this request, she gave no sign of it at all. ‘The Contessa is reading. But I’m sure she’d be glad to see you, Dottore.’ As she led Brunetti back into the living portion of the palazzo, Luciana asked, voice warm with real affection, ‘How are the children?’
‘Raffi’s in love,’ Brunetti said, warmed by Luciana’s answering smile. ‘And so is Chiara,’ he added, this time amused to see her shock. ‘But luckily, Raffi’s in love with a girl, and Chiara’s in love with the new polar bear in the Berlin Zoo.’
Luciana stopped and placed one hand on his sleeve. ‘Oh, Dottore, you shouldn’t play tricks like that on an old woman,’ she said, taking her other hand, the one for melodrama, from her heart.
‘Who’s the girl?’ she asked. ‘Is she a good girl?’
‘Sara Paganuzzi. She lives on the floor under us. Raffi’s known her since they were kids. Her father has a glass factory out on Murano.’
‘That Paganuzzi?’ Luciana asked with real curiosity.
‘Yes. Do you know them?’
‘No, not personally, but I know his work. Beautiful, beautiful. My nephew works out on Murano, and he’s always saying that Paganuzzi is the best of the glass-makers.’ Luciana stopped in front of the Contessa’s study and knocked on the door.
‘Avanti,’ the Contessa’s voice called from inside. Luciana opened the door and allowed Brunetti to go in unannounced. After all, there was very little danger that he would find the Contessa doing something she shouldn’t be doing or secretly reading a body-building magazine.
Donatella Falier looked across the top of her reading glasses, set her book face down beside her on the sofa, the glasses on top of it, and got immediately to her feet. She came quickly toward Brunetti and lifted up her face to receive his two light kisses. Though he knew she was in her mid-sixties, the Contessa looked at least a decade younger; there was not a white hair to be seen, wrinkles were reduced to insignificance by carefully applied make-up, and her small body was trim and straight.
‘Guido, is anything wrong?’ she asked with real concern, and Brunetti felt a moment’s regret that he was such a stranger to this woman’s life that his very presence would speak only of danger or loss.
‘No, nothing at all. Everyone’s fine.’
He saw her relax visibly as he answered. ‘Good, good. Would you like something to drink, Guido?’ She looked toward the window as if to tell the time by the quantity of light that remained and thus know what sort of drink to offer, and he saw that she was surprised to find the windows of the room dark. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘Six-thirty.’
‘Is it really?’ she asked rhetorically, going back toward the sofa where she had been sitting. ‘Come and sit here and tell me how the children are,’ she said. She resumed her place, closed the book, and set it on the table beside her. She folded the glasses and set them beside the book. ‘No, sit here, Guido,’ she insisted when she saw him move toward a chair on the opposite side of the low table in front of the sofa.
He did as she told him and sat beside her on the sofa. In his many years of marriage to Paola, Brunetti had spent very little time alone with her mother, and so the impression he had of her was confused. At times, she seemed the most empty-headed of social butterflies, unable to do something so simple as get herself a drink, yet at other times she had amazed Brunetti with summations of people’s motivations or characters that stunned him with their icy penetration and accuracy. He was kept off balance because he could never tell if her remarks were intentional or accidental. It was this woman who had, a year ago, referred to Fini, the Neo-fascist parliamentarian, as ‘Mussofini’, giving no indication of whether the mistaken name was the result of confusion or contempt.
He told her how the children were, assuring the Contessa that both of them were doing well in school, were sleeping with their windows closed against the night air, and eating two vegetables with every meal. That, apparently, was enough to assure the Contessa that all was well with her grandchildren, and so she turned her attention to their parents. ‘And you and Paola? You certainly are looking robust, Guido,’ she said, and Brunetti found himself sitting up a bit straighter.
‘Now tell me, what would you like to drink?’ she asked.
‘Nothing, really. I’ve come to ask you about some people you might know.’
‘Really?’ she said, turning her jade-green eyes toward him and opening them wide. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Well, the name of one of them has come up in another investigation we’re conducting ...’ he began and let the sentence trail out.
‘And you’ve come to see if I know anything about them?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘What could I possibly know that could be of help to the police?’
‘Well, personal things,’ Brunetti said.
‘You mean gossip?’ she asked.
‘Um, yes.’
She looked aside for a moment and straightened a minuscule wrinkle in the fabric on the arm of the sofa. ‘I didn’t know the police interested themselves with gossip.’
‘It’s probably our richest source of information.’
‘Really?’ she asked, and when he nodded, added, ‘How very interesting.’
Brunetti said nothing, and to avoid meeting the Contessa’s glance, he looked across her to the spine of the book on the table, expecting to find a romance or a mystery. ‘The Voyage of the Beagle,’ he asked aloud, unable to contain his astonishment and pronouncing the title in English.
The Contessa glanced at the book and then back to Brunetti. ‘Why, yes, Guido. Have you read it?’
‘When I was in university, years ago, but in translation,’ he managed to say, voice under control and all astonishment removed from it.
‘Yes, I?
??ve always enjoyed reading Darwin,’ the Contessa explained. ‘Did you like the book?’ she continued, all discussion of gossip and police business suspended.
‘Yes, I did, at the time. I’m not sure my memory of it is all that clear, though.’
‘You should read it again, then. It’s an important book, probably one of the most important books of the modern world. That and the Origin of Species, I’d say.’ Brunetti nodded in agreement. ‘Would you like to borrow it when I’m finished with it?’ she asked. ‘You wouldn’t have any trouble with the English, would you?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but I’ve got quite a lot to read at the moment. Perhaps later in the year.’
‘Yes, it would be a lovely book to read on vacation, I think. All those beaches. All those lovely animals.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Brunetti agreed, utterly at a loss as to what to say.
The Contessa saved him. ‘Who is it you wanted me to gossip about, Guido?’
‘Well, not exactly gossip, just tell me if you’ve heard anything about them that might be interesting to the police.’
‘And what sort of thing is interesting to the police?’
He hesitated a moment but then had to confess, ‘Everything, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I thought that might be the case,’ she answered. ‘Well?’
‘Signorina Benedetta Lerini,’ he said.
‘The one who lives over in Dorsoduro?’ the Contessa asked.
‘Yes.’
The Contessa thought for a moment and then said, ‘All I know about her is that she is very generous to the Church, or is said to be. Much of the money she inherited from her father – dreadful, vicious man – has been given to the Church.’
‘Which one?’
The Contessa paused for a moment. ‘Isn’t that strange?’ she asked with mingled surprise and curiosity, ‘I don’t have any idea. All I’ve heard is that she’s very religious and gives a lot of money to the Church. But for all I know, it could be the Waldensians or the Anglicans or even those dreadful Americans who stop you on the street, you know, the ones who have lots of wives but don’t let them drink Coca Cola.’
Brunetti wasn’t sure how much this advanced his understanding of Signorina Lerini, and so he tried the other name. ‘And Contessa Crivoni?’
‘Claudia?’ the Contessa asked, making no attempt to disguise her first reaction, which was surprise, nor her second, which was delight.
‘If that’s her name. She’s the widow of Conte Egidio.’
‘Oh, this is too, too delicious,’ the Contessa said with a fluty laugh. ‘How I wish I could tell the girls at bridge.’ Seeing Brunetti’s look of sheer panic, she instantly added, ‘No, don’t worry, Guido. I won’t say a thing about this. Not even to Orazio. Paola has told me how she can never tell me anything you tell her.’
‘She has?’
‘Yes.’
‘But does she ever tell you anything?’ Brunetti asked before he could stop himself.
The Contessa smiled in response and placed her ring-covered hand on his sleeve. ‘Now, Guido, you’re loyal to your oath to the police, aren’t you?’
He nodded.
‘Well, then, I’m loyal to my daughter.’ She smiled again. ‘Now tell me what you’d like to know about Claudia.’
‘I’d like to know about her husband, how she got on with him.’
‘No one got on with Egidio, I’m afraid,’ the Contessa said without hesitation, then added with reflective slowness, ‘But I suppose the same thing could probably be said of Claudia.’ She considered this, as though she hadn’t realized it until she’d said it. ‘What do you know about them, Guido?’
‘Nothing more than the usual gossip in the city.’
‘Which is?’
‘That he made his money in the sixties by putting up illegal buildings in Mestre.’
‘And what about Claudia?’
‘That she is interested in public morality,’ Brunetti said blandly.
The Contessa smiled at this, ‘Oh, yes, she certainly is.’
When she added nothing to this, Brunetti asked, ‘What do you know about her, or how do you know her?’
‘Because of the church, San Simone Piccolo. She’s on the committee that’s trying to raise enough money for the restoration.’
‘Are you a member, as well?’
‘Good heavens, no. She asked me to join, but I know the talk about restoration is just a ruse.’
‘To cover up what?’
‘It’s the only church in the city where they say the mass in Latin. Did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘I think they had something to do with that cardinal in France – Lefevre – the one who wanted to go back to Latin and incense. So I assume that any money they raised would be sent to France or used for incense, not to restore the church.’ She considered this for a moment and then added, ‘The church is so ugly, it ought not to be restored anyway. Just a bad imitation of the Pantheon.’
However interesting he might have found this architectural digression, Brunetti pulled the Contessa away from it. ‘But what do you know about her?’
The Contessa looked away from him, toward the row of quatrefoil windows that gave an unimpeded view to the palazzi on the other side of the Grand Canal. ‘What use is going to be made of this, Guido? Can you tell me that?’
‘Can you tell me why you want to know?’ he asked by way of answer.
‘Because, unpleasant a creature as Claudia is, I don’t want her to suffer unjustly as a result of some gossip that proves to be false.’ Before Brunetti could say anything, she raised a hand and said, voice a bit louder. ‘No, I think it’s closer to the truth to say that I don’t want to be responsible for that suffering.’
‘I can assure you that she will suffer nothing unmerited.’
‘I find that a very ambiguous remark.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. The truth is that I don’t have any idea if she could have done anything or, in fact, any idea of what sort of thing she might have done. I don’t even know if anything wrong has been done.’
‘But you’re coming to ask questions about her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must have reason to be curious about her.’
‘Yes, I am. But I promise you that it is no more than that. And if what you tell me removes my curiosity, whatever it is, it will not go any further than me. I promise you that.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
Brunetti pulled his lips together while he thought this through. ‘Then I’ll look into whatever you tell me and see what truth lies under the gossip.’
‘Very often there is none,’ she said.
He smiled to hear her say that. Certainly the Contessa needed no one to tell her that, just as often, truth provided a rock-like foundation to gossip.
After a long pause, she said, ‘There’s talk about a priest,’ but said nothing more.
‘What kind of talk?’
She waved a hand in the air by way of answer.
‘Which priest?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’ he asked softly.
‘There have been a few remarks dropped. Nothing overt, you understand, nothing that could be interpreted as anything other than the deepest and most sincere concern for her welfare.’ Brunetti was familiar with remarks like this: crucifixion was kinder. ‘You know how these things get said, Guido. If she fails to come to a meeting, someone will ask if anything is wrong, or someone else will say that they hope it’s not a sickness of some sort, then add, in that voice women have, that they know it would have to be illness, her spiritual health being so well looked after.’
‘Is that all?’ Brunetti asked.
She nodded. ‘It’s enough.’
‘Why do you think it’s a priest?’
Again, the Contessa waved her hand. ‘It’s the tone. The words don’t really mean anything; it’s all done with the tone, the inflection, the hint that lies lurking under the s
urface of the most innocent remark.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Guido,’ she said, sitting up straighter, ‘I don’t know that anything at all is going on.’
‘Then how long have these remarks been going on?’
‘I don’t know. More than a year, I think. I was very slow to notice them. Or perhaps people were careful about making them in front of me. They know I don’t like that sort of thing.’
‘Has anything else been said?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘At the time of her husband’s death?’
‘No, nothing that I can remember.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Guido,’ she said, leaning toward him and putting her bejewelled hand on his sleeve, ‘please try to remember that I am not a suspect and do try not to talk to me like one.’
He felt his face grow red and he said immediately, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I forget.’
‘Yes, Paola’s told me.’
‘Told you what?’ Brunetti asked.
‘How important it is to you.’
‘How important what is?’
‘What you see as justice.’
‘What I see?’
‘Ah, I’m sorry, Guido. I’m afraid I’ve offended you now.’
He shook this away with a quick motion of his head, but before he could ask her what she meant by ‘his’ idea of justice, she got to her feet and said, ‘How dark it’s getting.’
She seemed to forget about him and went over to stand in front of one of the windows, her back to Brunetti, her hands clasped behind her. Brunetti studied her, the raw silk suit, high heels, and the back of her perfect chignon. The Contessa could have been a young woman standing there, so slender and straight was her outline.
After a long time, she turned, glancing down at her watch. ‘Orazio and I have a dinner invitation, Guido, so if you have no other questions, I’m afraid I have to change.’